As a god self-slain on his own strange altar

I can truly say with Shelley that I have been fortunate in friendships: that I have been no less fortunate in my enemies than in my friends.

There was a bad poet named Clough, Whom his friends all united to puff. But the public, though dull, Has not quite such a skull As belongs to believers in Clough.

The small dark body's Lesbian loveliness That held the fire eternal.

Rhyme is the native condition of lyric verse in English; a rhymeless lyric is a maimed thing.

Sweet Love, that art so bitter.

God by God flits past in thunder, till His glories turn to shades; God to God bears wondering witness how His gospel flames and fades. More was each of these, yet they were, than man their servant seemed: Dead are all of these, and man …